《莊子注》Vol. 7

This passage presents Guo Xiang's Jin Dynasty commentary on the Zhuangzi's "Mastering Life" chapter, exploring the wisdom of properly understanding life and nurturing vitality.

One who truly comprehends the essence of life does not pursue things extraneous to existence itself ("what life has no use for" refers to external matters beyond one's fundamental nature). One who understands the truth of destiny does not force what intellect cannot change ("what knowledge finds无可奈何" refers to predetermined matters). Though people generally recognize that nurturing the body requires material means, we often see cases where material abundance fails to properly sustain vitality (knowing when to stop is enough - when materials match life's needs, excess becomes harmful).

Preserving life first requires keeping body and spirit united, yet some cling to physical form so desperately they lose vitality (because excessive attachment to form destroys life's energy). When life comes, none can refuse it; when it departs, none can stop it (neither is within human control, so excessive concern is unnecessary). Sadly, worldly people believe maintaining the body preserves life (yet the more deliberately they nurture it, the more they lose it). In truth, mere physical care cannot retain life (the more excessive the nurturing, the closer one approaches death) - so why do people exhaust themselves? (Better to follow nature's course). Though such efforts prove ultimately useless, humans cannot refrain from them (because these actions stem from inherent nature, all conforming to Dao's patterns and being unavoidable. Thus those truly skilled at nurturing life follow natural rhythms).

To transcend physical constraints, the best method is rising above worldly concerns. Beyond worldly ties there are no burdens; without burdens one achieves mental equilibrium; with equilibrium one renews life alongside nature ("renewal" means daily rebirth - following natural transformations fully realizes one's nature and vitality). What worldly matters deserve abandoning? Why deliberately forget life itself? Releasing mundane affairs relieves the body's toil; forgetting forced longevity practices prevents spiritual depletion (this explains why forgetting and relinquishing matter). When form remains whole and spirit restored, one merges with nature (both occurring without forced action).

Heaven and earth act as parents to all things (their impartiality enables nourishing all existence). When yin and yang qi combine, they form physical entities; when dispersed, they return to primordial state (omnipresent yet formless). When neither physical form nor spiritual essence suffers depletion, this constitutes moving in harmony with creation's transformations (following nature's changes). When spiritual cultivation reaches its zenith, one returns to assisting nature's operations.

Liezi asked Guan Yin (disciple of Laozi and guardian of Hangu Pass) why those who attain the Dao can submerge in water without drowning, tread on fire without burning, and walk upon all things without fear. Guan Yin replied that this is because they preserve the pure primordial Qi (vital energy), which cannot be achieved through mere cleverness or brute force.

Guan Yin elaborated further: All things with form, sound, or color are concrete phenomena. There is no fundamental difference between objects—what truly matters is whether one can transcend the constraints of form and appearance. Those who truly attain the Dao reach a state beyond form and image, wandering in harmony with creation. Such individuals abide in their true nature, flowing with the transformations of nature, their spirit connected to the root of all things.

Just as a drunkard who falls from a carriage may be injured but not fatally harmed—because his spirit is in a state of selfless oblivion—those who embody the Dao go even deeper. They are wholly united with the heavenly Dao, so that neither life nor death nor fear can disturb their minds. The sage fully merges with nature, and thus external things cannot harm them. It is like how an avenger would not break the sword (Ganjiang or Moye) once wielded by their enemy, for the sword itself has no will of its own.

King Wu of Wu commissioned Gan Jiang to forge swords, ultimately creating two blades—one named Gan Jiang and the other Mo Ye (after the swordsmith's wife). This narrative illustrates a profound truth: even those harboring resentment do not rage against randomly falling roof tiles (the "drifting tile" symbolizes accidental occurrences that incur no blame, as they lack intentionality).

Herein lies a fundamental principle: the world achieves peace by adhering to the "emotionless" natural order (where "emotionless" denotes freedom from human selfish desires). Rather than clinging to artificial striving, one should accord with innate nature ("human-made heaven" represents artificial cleverness, while "heaven's heaven" signifies spontaneous authenticity). Aligning with nature nurtures De (Virtue/Power) (when one's essence flows naturally, situations are met with perfect responsiveness), whereas forced cleverness breeds calamity (conscious pursuit traps one in endless craving).

When Confucius traveled through Chu, he observed a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas with a bamboo pole, his skill so effortless as if simply picking them up. The elder revealed his secret: "Through five or six months of practice, I balanced two clay balls atop my pole without dropping them—then missed few cicadas. With three balls steady, I failed only once in ten attempts. When five balls stayed balanced, it became as easy as gathering fallen fruit." He described his state: "My body stands like a rooted stump, my arms extend like withered branches" (depicting ultimate focused absorption).

These paired parables—sword-forging and cicada-catching—demonstrate the state of natural accord and selfless concentration. The hunchback's gradual mastery reveals a Daoist cultivation path where skill transcends into Dao (the Way). When focus reaches its zenith, external movements appear effortlessly spontaneous.

This passage reveals the essential Daoist practice of "single-minded concentration and spiritual focus" through several vivid stories.

An old hunchback catching cicadas with a bamboo pole demonstrated such precise skill it seemed effortless. When Confucius asked his secret, the old man explained that after five or six months of practice, he could balance two pellets on the pole without dropping them, making mistakes rare. When he progressed to balancing five pellets, his movements became as natural as picking things up by hand. Confucius marveled: "When the mind is unified without distraction, one attains divine mastery—this hunchbacked elder exemplifies this truth."

Yan Yuan once asked Confucius about ferrymen at the Shang Deep crossing whose boat-handling skills seemed miraculous. Confucius explained: "Good swimmers quickly forget about the water, while expert divers see deep abysses as flat ground and capsized boats merely as carts rolling backward. No accident can disturb their composure, hence they handle any situation with ease."

The text then uses gambling as metaphor: When wagering with pottery shards, one's movements remain deft; with belt hooks, hesitation appears; with gold, the hands grow clumsy. The skill remains constant, but excessive attachment to external objects makes the mind dull. Those who overvalue material things invariably lack inner cultivation.

Finally, when Tian Kaizhi visited Duke Wei of Zhou, he mentioned studying under Zhu Shen (a longevity master) by simply sweeping the front steps—implying true practice requires the inner stillness Zhu Shen taught. These stories collectively illustrate that only by eliminating distractions and maintaining single-minded focus can one attain transcendent mastery.

This passage vividly illustrates Zhuangzi's core philosophy of nurturing life through several allegorical stories.

Duke Luwei sought Tian Kaizhi's advice on cultivating life. Tian recounted Confucius' analogy: nurturing life well is like herding sheep - one must notice stragglers and urge them forward. He then presented two cautionary tales: Shan Bao, who secluded himself in mountains retaining youthful looks at seventy only to be devoured by a tiger; and Zhang Yi, who immersed himself in social affairs and died of internal fever at forty. These show the pitfalls of focusing solely on inner cultivation or external engagements.

Confucius proposed three principles: don't over-isolate yourself (like Shan Bao's complete seclusion), nor excessively publicize yourself (like Zhang Yi's constant socializing), but maintain the middle way like withered wood. The text employs a traveler's encounter with bandits to highlight how people guard against minor dangers while ignoring greater harms in daily indulgences of food and desire.

The passage concludes with a sacrificial pig allegory satirizing worldly delusions: A priest in ceremonial robes tells the pig, "Why fear death? We'll honor you with exquisite vessels," when for the pig, living in its pen eating husks would be preferable. This metaphor reveals how people become enchanted by superficial glory while forgetting life's essence.

This passage presents two stories illustrating how psychological factors affect health.

The first story describes how people crave high positions and luxurious carriages (xuān miǎn) during their lives, and ornate coffins (shàn dùn, jù lǚ) after death, yet advocate simplicity when planning for pigs. Zhuangzi points out the absurdity of this double standard, showing that humans and animals share the same fundamental nature in life and death.

The second story recounts Duke Huan of Qi's ghost encounter. While hunting, the duke claimed to see a ghost and fell ill from fright. The wise scholar Huangzi Gao'ao explained: "No ghost can actually harm people—what harms you is pent-up Qi (fèn chù zhī qì)." He elaborated how stagnant Qi causes different ailments: rising Qi induces irritability, sinking Qi leads to forgetfulness, and blocked chest Qi creates real illness. He then catalogued various legendary spirits: the kitchen god (lǚ zào) of the hearth, the door god (jì), the thunder deity (léi tíng), and finally mentioned a marsh creature called Wēi yí—a purple-bodied, red-crowned monster as large as a chariot axle that fears thunder. Those who see it would rule the world. Upon hearing this, the duke laughed, exclaiming this was exactly the "ghost" he'd seen, and immediately recovered.

The moral shines through: most worries are self-created, and clarity of mind dissolves ailments. As the commentary notes: "Anxiety arises from obscured understanding, while relief comes through penetrating truth"—distress stems from confused perception, and healing follows awakened wisdom.

This passage records several intriguing stories and legends. First are descriptions of various divine manifestations: the Kitchen God (Zao Shen) wears red robes and resembles a beautiful woman; the Household Guardian Deity (Bei'a Shen) appears as a child, standing one chi four cun tall (about 47cm), clad in black with a red headscarf, wielding a sword and halberd; the Water Spirit Wangxiang (also called Wushang) looks like a child with reddish-black skin, large ears and long arms; there's also a spirit called "Shen" resembling a horned dog adorned with five-colored patterns.

Next comes the story of Ji Shengzi training fighting cocks for the King of Qi. After forty days of training, the rooster transformed from initial bluster to complete indifference toward other birds' challenges, standing motionless like a wooden fowl. Ji Shengzi declared this the highest achievement, explaining the bird had attained "perfect De" (complete inner cultivation) - making other cocks flee without daring to fight. This allegorically illustrates human self-cultivation through poultry training.

Lastly is Confucius' encounter at Lüliang (modern Lishi, Shanxi). There, a thirty-ren-high waterfall (about 54m) created torrents too fierce even for giant turtles or crocodiles. Spotting a man swimming effortlessly, Confucius assumed he was suicidal and sent disciples to rescue him. The swimmer covered hundreds of paces before emerging, shaking his hair and singing. When asked his technique, the man replied there was none - he simply followed the water's nature, diving with whirlpools and surfacing with currents. This parable demonstrates the vital principle of conforming to natural laws.

This passage presents two stories illustrating the Daoist principle of "following natural spontaneity."

The first recounts the story of Zi Qing crafting a musical instrument called ju (similar to a bell). As a master artisan of the Lu State, Zi Qing would first observe purification rituals to quiet his mind: for three days he abstained from thoughts of rewards and titles, for five days disregarded others' opinions, and after seven days even forgot his own physical existence. Only then would he enter the mountains to select the most suitable wood, crafting the instrument entirely according to the material's inherent qualities. When Duke Lu inquired about his secret, Zi Qing explained the key lay in not expending Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy), achieving complete inner stillness to reach the state of "matching Heaven with Heaven"—where the natural properties of the material perfectly harmonized with the artisan's innate nature.

The second story tells of Dongye Ji, a master charioteer who demonstrated his skills for Duke Zhuang of Lu. His horses moved with such precision in advancing, retreating and turning that their movements seemed measured with compasses. The Duke marveled that not even the most exquisite patterns could compare. However, Yan He, a Daoist sage, discerned the horses were exhausted yet being pushed beyond their limits, predicting inevitable failure. Soon after, the horses indeed collapsed. This illustrates how forcibly pursuing perfection against natural laws ultimately leads to failure.

Both stories demonstrate that true mastery comes not through forceful striving, but by aligning with the inherent nature of things ("flowing like water," "matching Heaven with Heaven"). By eliminating selfish desires and distractions ("free from personal bias"), one attains sublime skill. Just as water flows naturally without conscious effort, humans who act in this manner achieve unimpeded success. The stories exemplify Wuwei (non-action)—the Daoist ideal of effortless action through profound attunement to natural patterns.

This passage elucidates the Daoist wisdom of "following nature's course." Dongye Ji, though a master charioteer of antiquity, failed precisely because he over-displayed his skills—demonstrating that excellence requires measured expression. Gong Chui, the legendary artisan of Emperor Yao's time, could draw perfect circles freehand because he worked in complete harmony with his materials, never forcing results.

True comfort manifests when: one forgets their feet because the shoes fit perfectly, or forgets their waist because the belt sits just right. Only by releasing distinctions of right/wrong can the mind find ease; only undisturbed by externalities can one achieve genuine contentment. The highest state is the comfort of "forgetting comfort itself"—conscious pursuit inevitably eludes this grace.

The subsequent story of Sun Xiu illustrates this: perpetually lamenting unrecognized talent, the Daoist sage Bian Qingzi diagnoses his flaw as striving for display—like "carrying lanterns at high noon" to flaunt intellect, which only highlights imperfections. The truly realized person "forgets their liver and gall, discards ears and eyes" (becoming unaware even of their own organs), naturally merging with the cosmic flow. They remain transcendent amid worldly affairs, accomplishing without claiming, guiding without controlling. Herein lies the essence of preserving innate nature and harmonizing with Dao.

(Note: "Gong Chui's circles surpassed compass-drawn ones" refers to the artisan's freehand perfection; "parading with sun and moon" metaphorically depicts ostentatious self-display)

Though the human body is complete, if the nine orifices (eyes, ears, nose, mouth, etc.) become damaged midway—turning one deaf, blind, or lame—can such a person still be considered normal? That they remain alive is already fortunate—how could they have time to complain against Heaven? Go now!" After the grandson left, Master Bian entered the house and sat down.

After a while, Master Bian sighed, looking up at the sky. His disciple asked, "Why does the Master sigh?" Master Bian replied, "Just now, Xiu came to see me, and I spoke to him about the virtue (De) of the Perfected One (one who has attained the highest moral cultivation). I fear that hearing such things may have startled him, only deepening his confusion." The disciple said, "That cannot be. If what the grandson said was right and you were wrong, error cannot confuse truth. If the grandson was wrong and you were right, he came here already confused—what fault is there in that?"

Master Bian said, "It is not so. Once, a bird alighted in the outskirts of Lu. The ruler of Lu delighted in it, feasting it with the grand sacrifice (the highest ceremonial offering) and playing the Nine Shao music to please it. Yet the bird was terrified, dizzy with fright, and dared not eat or drink. This is called nourishing a bird as one would nourish a human. Had it been raised according to its nature, it should have been allowed to perch in deep forests, float on rivers and lakes, feed on minnows, and be left undisturbed on open ground. Xiu is a man of narrow understanding. When I spoke to him of the virtue of the Perfected One, it was like carrying a small mouse in a carriage or amusing a bird with bells and drums—how could he not be startled?"

The "Mountain Tree" chapter records: Zhuangzi saw a great tree in the mountains, lush and flourishing, yet the woodcutters rested beside it without felling it. When asked why, they replied, "It is useless." Zhuangzi said, "This tree survives to fulfill its natural lifespan precisely because it is useless." Later, Zhuangzi visited a friend's home. The friend, pleased, ordered a servant to kill a goose for the feast. The servant asked, "One goose can honk, the other cannot—which shall I kill?" The host said, "Kill the one that cannot honk." The next day, Zhuangzi's disciple asked, "Yesterday, the mountain tree survived by being useless, yet the master's goose was killed for being useless. How, then, should one conduct oneself?" Zhuangzi laughed and said, "I would position myself between usefulness and uselessness. Between usefulness and uselessness..."

Zhuangzi here employs the fable of foxes and leopards as a metaphor for worldly troubles. Those foxes with splendid fur and leopards with beautiful markings, though dwelling reclusively in mountain forests, moving cautiously by night and hiding by day while foraging along rivers and lakes, still cannot escape hunters' nets and traps. Their misfortune stems not from any wrongdoing, but from the preciousness of their pelts that invites calamity.

The state of Lu is like the "pelt" upon your person, Lord of Lu. Though you diligently study the ancient kings' methods of governance, reverently serve the spirits, and honor worthy men, you cannot avoid anxiety and peril—just as those magnificent beasts suffer because of their beautiful coats. Shinan Yiliao (a Chu state recluse) advised the Lord of Lu: Better to cast off external form, wash clean the desires in your heart, and wander freely in the uninhabited wilderness.

True liberation lies in following nature's course. Those who attain the Dao (the Way) transform like dragons and serpents according to circumstance, never clinging to fixed forms. They maintain harmony with both above and below, roaming freely within the source of all things. They govern external matters without becoming enslaved by them—how could worldly entanglements possibly constrain such beings? This is the principle of existence handed down by Shennong and the Yellow Emperor.

Those obsessed with worldly sentiments and human conventions meet the opposite fate: what gathers must scatter, what succeeds must decay, the rigid easily breaks, the eminent invites slander, action brings loss, worthiness provokes schemes, while incompetence invites bullying. Remember this, disciples—only by returning to the realm of the great Dao can one attain true peace.

In the southern lands of Nanyue, there exists a city-state called the "Land of Established Virtue (Jiande zhi guo)" (Zhuangzi deliberately chose this place far from the Central Plains to symbolize a realm transcending worldly concerns). The people there are simple and innocent, with few selfish desires and minimal cravings. They work diligently without hoarding, give generously without seeking reward, neither understanding where to apply worldly notions of "righteousness" nor adhering to conventional "ritual propriety." Though they may appear unrestrained, they actually follow the most fundamental Dao (each person acts naturally according to their innate nature, thereby achieving the broadest possible state of being). They live in carefree joy and are laid to rest peacefully when they die (showing this state persists through life and death alike).

I hope you can cast aside the affairs of state, relinquish worldly attachments, and walk in harmony with the Dao (relinquishing worldly attachments means clearing the mind of fixations). Yet you say: "That path is too distant and perilous, requiring me to cross rivers and seas—how can I go without a boat or carriage?" (Here, the physical distance serves as a metaphor for the difficulty of cultivating the Dao.)

Shinanzi (a fictional enlightened figure) replies: "Do not be constrained by your physical form (xingju refers to obstacles arising from the body), nor cling to any fixed state (liuju means attachment to a particular condition). Take this liberated mindset as your carriage (when form and all things are equal, and the mind communicates with all existence, you can rely on the myriad things to carry you forward)." You then worry: "That path is dark and remote, with no human presence. I have no companion and no provisions—how can I possibly reach it?"

Shinanzi says: "Reduce your expenditures and diminish your desires, and even without provisions, you will feel abundant (understanding contentment means never experiencing true lack). When you cross rivers and drift upon the sea, gazing into the distance where no shore is visible, the farther you go, the more boundless it becomes (a metaphor for completely freeing oneself from emotional attachments). Those who see you off will remain on the shore and turn back (when a ruler relinquishes fixations, the people naturally settle into their proper roles), while you will leave the mundane world behind (transcending and standing above all things)."

Thus, those who possess subjects are burdened (treating the people as private property), and those who are controlled by others are troubled (being manipulated or used). A sage ruler like Yao neither possesses his subjects nor is controlled by them (though he holds the empire, he delegates governance to officials and entrusts all things to nature, never interfering—this is non-possession; by following the people and aligning with the natural flow of things without being controlled, this is non-subjugation). I hope to help you shed these burdens.

After the ruler's worries are removed, one roams alone with the Dao (the Way) in a vast and boundless realm. The "Land of Nowhere" mentioned here refers to a realm of stillness and emptiness, where nothing exists.

Two boats are crossing a river side by side, and an empty boat bumps into one's own. Even a narrow-minded person would not become angry. But if someone were aboard, one would first shout for them to steer the boat away. If the shout goes unheard, one shouts again; if that too goes unheard, one shouts a third time, and then is sure to curse at them in anger. One was not angry a moment ago but is angry now, because the boat that struck was empty then, and now someone is on it. If a person can approach the world with an empty heart, like an empty boat, who can harm them? Though worldly affairs keep changing, one who lives with an emptied self can avoid misfortune. Here, "fangzhou" (方舟) means boats joined side by side, and "emptying the self" (虚己) means letting go of the ego and not clinging to one's own opinions.

Bei Gong She collected goods and funds on behalf of Duke Ling of Wei in order to cast bells. He built an altar outside the gate of the outer city wall, and within three months the bells of both the upper and lower tiers had been hung. Prince Qingji saw this and asked him, "What method did you use?" Bei Gong She replied, "I simply held to the One, and did not dare to devise anything else." The commentary explains that he merely held to the One in a state of calm detachment, without deliberately adding any arrangement of his own; the "altar" here refers to a platform for sacrifices to the earth, and "hanging" refers to suspending the bells.

Bei Gong She had heard this principle: after carving and polishing, one should return to simplicity. Remain in undivided, unadorned simplicity, without striving for knowledge; remain at ease and unhurried, without rushing toward anything. Gathering and dispersing without fixed pattern, vacant and without fixed intent, take no delight in, and cling to nothing in, the comings and goings of people and events. Do not block those who come, and do not detain those who leave; act in accordance with the strength of the many, respond to the twists and turns of events as they unfold, and do not bind oneself within them. Follow circumstances, and let things run their own course to their natural end. Thus, though he collected goods from morning till night, he did not harm even the slightest detail. How much more so for one who has mastered the great Dao! Such a person is at ease and attached to nothing, letting the myriad things under heaven follow their own nature. This is the Dao of free passage, and therefore matters are accomplished swiftly.

When Confucius was besieged between the states of Chen and Cai, he went seven days without a cooked meal. Taigong Ren went to console him, asking, "Are you about to die?" Confucius answered, "Yes." Taigong Ren asked further, "Do you dislike death?" Confucius answered, "Yes." The commentary notes that Confucius was merely answering in accordance with the likes and dislikes of ordinary people; the sage inherently has no fixed likes or dislikes.

Taigong Ren said, "Let me tell you about the Dao of deathlessness. In the Eastern Sea there is a kind of bird, and Taigong Ren used it to illustrate the Dao of deathlessness."

This passage presents Zhuangzi's philosophical insights through the parable of the "sluggish bird" to illustrate the art of living. This bird flies slowly and weakly, appearing clumsy and incapable, always moving with the flock—never venturing ahead nor lagging behind, never scrambling to eat first. Precisely because it doesn't draw attention to itself, it avoids rejection and remains unharmed by external threats.

Zhuangzi employs the metaphors of "straight trees being felled first" and "sweet wells running dry first" to demonstrate how conspicuous excellence invites trouble. Trees that grow straight are cut down first, and wells with sweet water are drained first. Those who deliberately display their intelligence or flaunt their virtue are like people walking while holding up the sun and moon—impossible to overlook, and thus prone to misfortune.

The text quotes the "Great Perfected Person" (referring to one who has attained the Dao), who states: "Those who boast of themselves achieve no real merit, for fame and accomplishment ultimately bring loss." The truly enlightened seek neither fame nor achievement, but blend with ordinary people and follow nature's flow. They erase their traces, relinquish power, neither harshly judge others nor become targets of judgment themselves.

Finally, Confucius exclaims in admiration: "How profoundly true! To sever worldly ties, withdraw from disciples and followers, escape to wild marshes, wear coarse clothing, and subsist on simple fare—this is true freedom and ease. What you describe is precisely what my heart yearns for, though I've yet to attain it."

Wearing coarse hemp garments and eating simple fare (demonstrating the renunciation of worldly pleasures), he could walk through herds of animals without startling them and enter flocks of birds without disturbing their formations (like plants and trees in their natural innocence, so neither beasts nor fowl feared him). When even birds and beasts do not dislike him, how much less would people? This parable illustrates how perfect sincerity can resonate with all things without causing harm.

Confucius asked Sanghu (a Daoist recluse): "Twice I was driven from Lu, suffered the humiliation of the felling of my tree in Song, was barred from entering Wei, found myself destitute in the lands of Shang and Zhou, and was besieged between Chen and Cai. After enduring so many trials, my relatives and friends grew increasingly distant, and my disciples scattered. Why is this?" Sanghu replied with a question: "Have you not heard the story of the flight from the doomed state? Lin Hui abandoned a jade disk worth a thousand pieces of gold yet carried an infant on his back as he fled. Someone asked: 'Was it for material gain? An infant isn't worth much. Was it to avoid burden? An infant is far more cumbersome than a jade disk.' Lin Hui answered: 'The jade disk was joined by profit, but the infant is connected by innate nature.' What is joined by profit will be abandoned when hardship comes; what is connected by innate nature will support each other even in calamity. The difference between these two kinds of relationships is immense. The friendship of noblemen is as insipid as water (drawn together by shared ideals), while the friendship of petty men is as sweet as honey (sweetened by the ornament of profit, but severed when interests change). Those who come together without cause will separate just as inexplicably."

Hearing this, Confucius said: "I have received instruction." Then he slowly paced back, abandoning his scholarly texts and ceasing to demand formal bows from his disciples—yet the bond between teacher and students grew deeper (having shed artifice to return to genuineness).

Later, Sanghu further remarked: "On his deathbed, Emperor Shun earnestly admonished Yu: 'Take heed! Let your physical form follow its natural course, and let your emotions flow with unfeigned sincerity (conforming to the body's nature and expressing feelings authentically, without distorting them for gain).'"

Zhuangzi here employs vivid metaphors to illuminate the crucial importance of timing and circumstance for spiritual cultivation.

He describes destiny as a form of instruction – those who follow natural laws never stray from the Dao (the Way), while those who act according to their true nature never grow weary. When the physical form isn't artificially adorned, it remains whole; when emotions aren't artificially constrained, one finds constant ease. Such people, who neither stray nor tire, have no need for ornate appearances to embellish themselves – just as Zhuangzi appeared before the King of Wei wearing patched hemp garments.

Seeing his ragged clothes, the king asked why he was in such dire straits. Zhuangzi replied: This is poverty, not distress. When scholars possess De (Virtue) yet cannot practice it – that is true distress. Like how gibbons moving through tall nanmu or catalpa trees swing freely through the branches, evading even divine archers like Houyi. But when forced into thorny bushes, they must move with trembling caution – not because their bones have stiffened, but because circumstances constrain them.

Zhuangzi then cites the historical example of Bi Gan being disemboweled to illustrate how true cultivation becomes impossible during eras of tyrannical rulers and corrupt ministers. Similarly, when Confucius was stranded without food for seven days between Chen and Cai, he could only beat time on withered wood while singing. Though his instrument was crude and the melody incomplete, Yan Hui listened with rapt attention. Confucius reminded him: Accepting heaven's mandate comes easily (like being content with simple fare), but resisting the temptations of fame and wealth proves difficult, as external distractions always arrive uninvited.

The core teaching emphasizes how cultivators must understand the importance of "timely circumstances": In adverse conditions, one shouldn't force progress – like gibbons moving cautiously through thorns. Yet one must maintain transcendent awareness, like Confucius finding joy amid hardship. True practitioners content themselves with poverty while delighting in the Dao, neither resisting heaven's decree nor coveting vain glory.

This passage explores the relationship between humanity and nature, along with principles for navigating life. It begins by observing that what we call "beginnings" are in fact endings, illustrating the infinite transformations of all things. Humans and Heaven (nature) originally form an inseparable unity—both exist in spontaneous naturalness.

The discussion unfolds through a dialogue between Confucius and Yan Hui: When Yan Hui asks how to avoid being harmed by nature, Confucius replies that hunger, thirst, cold, heat, and life's obstacles are all part of Heaven and Earth's natural rhythms. Just as moving objects inevitably experience wear, these phenomena are inescapable. The key lies in aligning with natural laws. If even ministers must abide by their roles, how much more should we respect the Dao of Heaven? By accepting one's circumstances with equanimity, one ceases to perceive harm.

Regarding the more challenging question of resisting temptations of human-derived benefits, Confucius explains: When first undertaking tasks, one may find all paths open, with titles and emoluments flowing effortlessly—yet these external gains are not obtained through deliberate pursuit. Human life is fated to interact with external things, unlike tiles or stones that possess mere form without engagement. The noble person avoids thievery; the wise refrains from seizing what isn't theirs. Like swallows (鷾鴯) that know to avoid unsuitable perches—even abandoning food to fly away—they dwell under human eaves despite wariness of people. The sage, however, merges completely with the world, making all under Heaven delight in supporting them. This represents the truly difficult achievement: transcending the lure of human-derived advantages.

This passage primarily contains a dialogue between Zhuangzi and his disciple Zhongni, along with Zhuangzi's observations in the Diaoling region, illustrating the Daoist concept of "the unity of Heaven and humanity."

Zhongni remarked: All things are in constant transformation, yet we know not what force drives this change ("chan" refers to succession and alternation). How can we discern their end points, or ascertain their beginnings? One need only maintain an upright mind to face these changes. Day and night alternate endlessly, thus we should meet them with equanimity, free from excessive attachment.

Regarding the question of "human-Heaven unity," Zhongni explained: Humans are subject to Heaven's workings, yet Heaven itself follows natural operation. Humans cannot possess Heaven's inherent nature ("tianxing" denotes natural disposition), for what is natural occurs spontaneously—how can one deliberately pursue spontaneity? The sage dwells in tranquil contentment, harmonizing with transformation until life's completion.

The subsequent narrative recounts Zhuangzi's parable in Diaoling: Zhuangzi saw a peculiar magpie with seven-foot wingspan and inch-wide eyes flying from the south. The bird alighted in a chestnut grove. When Zhuangzi prepared to shoot it with his slingshot, he observed: a cicada reveling in shade had forgotten its vulnerability; a mantis lurked behind leaves awaiting the cicada; while the magpie poised to seize the mantis. All had neglected their fundamental nature through greed for immediate gain.

Zhuangzi sighed: "Thus do all creatures entangle one another ("xianglei" signifies mutual involvement), as two kinds of phenomena inevitably attract (denoting how desire-bound entities gravitate toward each other)." Discarding his slingshot, he departed—only to be chased by the grove keeper who mistook him for a chestnut thief. For three months afterward, Zhuangzi remained indoors. When disciples inquired, he replied: "I became fixated on external forms (ensnared by the phenomena of magpie, cicada and mantis), forgetting my own fundamental safety."

This commentary on the Zhuangzi illustrates the principles of "forgetting the self" and "true nature" through several parables. The first story tells of a man who remained secluded in his courtyard for three months after being scolded by a chestnut grove keeper during an outing to Diaoling. So immersed was he in admiring the scenery that he was mistaken for a thief, leading him to realize how attachment to external things causes one to lose oneself. Like gazing at turbid water yet failing to see the clear depths beneath, excessive focus on the outer world obscures the inner heart.

The text then quotes Confucius: "When entering a place, follow local customs." But Zhuangzi adds that true wisdom lies in not deliberately displaying oneself. This is exemplified through Yang Zhu's (also called Yangzi) experience at an inn, where two concubines resided—one beautiful yet slighted, the other plain but respected. The innkeeper explained: the beautiful one flaunted her looks, making others overlook her beauty, while the plain one acknowledged her plainness, making others disregard it. Yang Zhu thus realized that truly virtuous people never consciously flaunt their virtues, and such individuals are welcomed everywhere.

The dialogue between Tian Zifang and Marquis Wen of Wei ultimately reveals the core message. When Tian repeatedly praised his townsman Xi Gong, the marquis assumed this was his teacher. Tian clarified his true teacher was Dongguo Shunzi, whom he seldom mentioned precisely because he was a "zhenren" (true person)—one who preserves innate nature. Though outwardly indistinguishable from ordinary people, such a person's inner being resonates with the Dao. This demonstrates that genuine attainment of the Dao requires no external reputation or display.

This passage illustrates the Daoist concept of "following natural spontaneity" through several stories. In Zhuangzi's account of Marquis Wen of Wei and Tian Zifang, we see how true wisdom manifests not through deliberate display, but by maintaining one's natural state. The Marquis initially believed his mastery of sage teachings and benevolent conduct represented the highest attainment. Yet after meeting Tian Zifang's teacher, he realized his learning was as artificial as clay figurines, recognizing how these external rituals had become constraints instead.

The story of Wenbo Xuezhi critiques the excesses of ritual propriety. He twice refused to meet visitors from Lu because, while these central plains gentlemen understood ceremonial norms, they lacked comprehension of the human heart's essence. When he finally received them, their every movement rigidly conformed to ritual prescriptions—offering admonitions with filial deference and guidance with paternal sternness—their artificial posturing made him sigh repeatedly. When Confucius met Wenbo Xuezhi and remained silent, Zilu was puzzled. Confucius explained: "With such a man, wherever his gaze falls, the Dao is present. Words become unnecessary."

These narratives collectively emphasize that genuine cultivation lies not in external ritual forms, but in internal authenticity. Excessive pursuit of formalized "propriety" risks losing touch with fundamental human nature. The highest gentlemen need no forced demonstrations—their mere presence allows others to perceive the Dao's existence.

Here Zhuangzi, through a dialogue between Yan Hui and Confucius (Zhongni), conveys a profound lesson about "following the Dao." Yan Hui says: "When you walk slowly, master, I walk slowly too; when you quicken your pace, I quicken mine; when you run, I run as well. But when you suddenly dart away leaving only dust behind, I can only stare blankly while lagging far behind." When Confucius asks what this means, Yan Hui explains: "I've been superficially imitating your every move, even echoing your teachings about the Dao, yet I've never truly grasped its essence."

Confucius reveals the key insight: "The true Dao cannot be fully expressed in words (Dao exists yet cannot be contained in speech). When I can convince others without speaking, attract followers without deliberate effort, and have people follow me naturally without authority—this is the state of 'darting away leaving dust behind.' It's like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west—all things follow this pattern, yet the Dao is far more profound."

Zhuangzi further elaborates on the view of life and death: "The greatest sorrow isn't physical death, but the death of the heart (no sorrow is greater than a dead heart). All things appear to have life and death (they are born dependent on something, and die dependent on something), but this is merely transformation of form. Just as we assume human form that seems fixed (once receiving this form), we're actually undergoing subtle changes every moment (day and night without pause), though we remain unaware. Those who truly understand destiny (those who know fate) don't obsess over predicting the future, but adapt to changes like Confucius (thus I daily move forward with it). If we spend a lifetime interacting with others yet never truly understand them (losing them while passing arm in arm), this is the greatest tragedy."

Note: The character "徂" carries dual meanings of "going forward" and "fading away"—Zhuangzi uses this pun to emphasize the truth of constant flux.

Here Zhuangzi employs metaphor to explore the issues of life, death, and transformation. He observes that just as one cannot forcibly restrain their own arm from moving, death is an unstoppable natural process. People often grieve for the deceased without realizing that life itself resembles horses galloping through a marketplace (the "Tangsi" referring to ancient horse trading grounds) - in perpetual flux, with the cycle of renewal continuing ceaselessly day and night.

What you perceive as my enduring self is in fact already vanishing, as futile as searching yesterday's horse in today's empty marketplace. Our mutual memories fade swiftly ("shen wang" denoting rapid forgetting), yet there's no need for distress, because while former selves continuously dissolve, new selves persistently emerge ("bu wang zhe cun" signifying life's essential capacity for renewal).

The passage then illustrates this through Confucius' encounter with Laozi (Lao Dan): Finding Laozi standing motionless as a wooden figure ("zhi ran" describing meditative stillness) with hair still wet after washing, Confucius initially thought he'd achieved out-of-body transcendence. Laozi explained he was journeying through the primordial state of all existence ("wu zhi chu" - the original condition of the Dao), a realm transcending physical form to achieve selfless unity with the Way. This demonstrates how those who attain the Dao liberate themselves from corporeal constraints, merging with the transformative flow of existence's fundamental source.

Zhuangzi here explores the fundamental origin of all things and the highest state of human existence through a dialogue between Confucius and his disciples. First, he points to the essential nature of all things' spontaneous existence: before forms take shape, there already exists an invisible primal force. This power cannot be fully captured in words, much like understanding something in one's heart yet being unable to articulate it.

He then explains the generation of all things through the interaction of Yin and Yang Qi (vital energies): the ultimate Yin Qi carries coldness and austerity, originating from the heavens, while the ultimate Yang Qi embodies heat and radiance, emerging from the earth. When these two energies harmoniously intermingle, all things come into being. Though there exists an arranger (the Dao) orchestrating this process, its concrete form remains unseen. All things exist in perpetual transformation—birth and dissolution, an endless cycle without cessation.

When Confucius inquires how to attain the highest state, the response is: Just as grazing animals don't mind changing pastures, and aquatic creatures don't fear shifting waters, those who understand that life and death are merely surface transformations without losing their root remain unaffected by joy or sorrow. One who truly comprehends the Dao knows all things under heaven are fundamentally one. Viewing the body as dust and life-death as the alternation of day and night, such a person naturally remains undisturbed by gain, loss, fortune, or misfortune.

The passage concludes by emphasizing: Those who can lightly regard external attachments discard them as easily as casting away dirt, for they understand their spiritual essence is far more precious than these worldly things. Here, "attachments" refers to external pursuits like fame, wealth, and social status—all transient possessions of the mundane world.

The text presents several allegorical stories illustrating core Daoist principles, emphasizing that inner cultivation surpasses outward forms in importance.

First, Zhuangzi asserts true nobility lies in maintaining one's original heart-mind, undisturbed by the transformations of life and death. Understanding that birth and death are natural patterns of the Dao allows one to preserve inner constancy. Though the myriad things undergo endless transformations, the Daoist practitioner transcends such disturbances.

Confucius once sighed in admiration, saying Laozi's De (Virtue) was as vast as heaven and earth, while he himself resembled nothing more than a tiny vinegar gnat (xi ji) trapped in a jar. Were it not for Laozi's illumination, he could never have comprehended the mysteries of the cosmos. This demonstrates how a true sage can suddenly awaken profound understanding in others.

Another story recounts Zhuangzi's meeting with Duke Ai of Lu. Though all Lu citizens wore Confucian robes, Zhuangzi remarked that genuine Confucian scholars were actually rare. He explained: "Those wearing round hats don't necessarily understand astronomy; those in square shoes don't necessarily know geography; those wearing jade pendants aren't necessarily skilled at decision-making." True gentlemen value inner cultivation over external adornments. When Duke Ai later decreed death for anyone wearing Confucian attire without genuine learning, only one man dared continue wearing the robes—and he truly mastered statecraft. This proves authentic knowledge resides in substance, not form.

The text concludes with the example of Baili Xi, the renowned Spring and Autumn period statesman. He transcended fame and profit while contentedly tending oxen, yet ultimately became a brilliant minister. This again demonstrates the primacy of inner cultivation.

These stories collectively expound the Daoist principle of Wuwei (non-action) and naturalness: True De flows like water naturally springing forth, as heaven naturally reaches heights, earth naturally bears weight, sun and moon naturally shine—requiring no artificial embellishment. Those with inner fullness need no outward ornamentation.

Duke Mu of Qin, upon seeing Baili Xi's well-fed cattle, overlooked his lowly status as a herdsman and entrusted him with state affairs. Emperor Shun of the Youyu clan regarded life and death with such detachment that he could truly move people's hearts. (Those who are genuinely liberated within will handle external affairs with ease. The phrase "forgetting his lowliness" refers to disregarding one's humble status as a cattle herder.)

When Lord Yuan of Song sought painters, numerous artists arrived. After paying respects, they stood deferentially—some licking brushes to prepare ink, half of them visibly nervous. The last painter arrived unhurriedly, offered casual greetings without standing formally, and immediately returned to his quarters. When Lord Yuan sent someone to observe, the man was found sitting cross-legged with his upper body bare. The ruler remarked, "This is the true master painter." (Those with inner fulfillment maintain serene composure and focused intent. "Receiving orders with a bow" refers to standing respectfully after accepting instructions.)

While inspecting the Zang region, King Wen observed an old man fishing in an unusual manner—as if completely indifferent to catching fish. (The activity merely served to pass time. Zang was a place name.) He wasn't truly fishing, but using it as means for self-cultivation. (Utterly free from desire) This exemplifies what's called "constant angling." (Without concern for gain or loss, simply using fishing as spiritual practice.)

King Wen wished to appoint this elder to govern, yet feared opposition from ministers and relatives. Considering abandonment of the idea pained him, knowing the people would lose a wise leader. At dawn court, he announced: "Last night I dreamt of a sage—dark-complexioned, astride a dappled horse with half-red hooves—who declared: 'Entrust governance to Zang's angler, and the people shall prosper.'" The ministers gasped: "Our ancestral ruler's vision!" When King Wen proposed divination, they replied: "An ancestral command requires no doubt—why consult oracle bones?" Thus they welcomed the Zang fisherman to administer state affairs.

For three years, the elder governed without altering statutes or issuing arbitrary decrees. When King Wen later toured his realm, he found scholars no longer forming cliques, officials not pursuing personal merit, and foreign grain measures (zhong hu) dared not cross the borders. (Scholars ceased factionalism—this embodies "harmonizing light with dust." Note: "Great officers" refers to ministers. "Without deviation" means violating no ancestral decree. "Uprooting factions and dispersing coteries" denotes ending patronage networks—alternatively interpreted as removing boundary markers and dissolving spheres of influence.)

This passage presents two stories that use dialogue and metaphors to illustrate the Daoist political wisdom of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei).

The first story recounts how King Wen sought governance advice from the hermit Zang the Elder. The old man remained silent and quietly departed the next day. This demonstrates how true sages don't pursue personal fame - only by achieving merit and then withdrawing can virtuous governance benefit the world. As Confucius explained when Yan Hui asked about this incident, King Wen had already reached perfection - he excelled at appointing capable ministers without claiming credit for himself, completely aligning with the people's needs.

The second story uses Liezi's archery as a metaphor for the state of Wuwei. When Liezi shot arrows, he could balance a cup of water on his elbow without spilling, moving so swiftly that he could nock the next arrow as soon as the first left the bow. But Bohun Wuren pointed out this was still "deliberate shooting," not yet reaching the highest state of "shooting without shooting" - the completely natural, effortless state of a wooden dummy.

Both stories emphasize that true governance and self-cultivation don't lie in forced striving, but in the Wuwei state of following nature's flow, claiming no merit and making no display. Whether in politics or personal cultivation, the most sublime state appears as doing nothing while actually being in perfect harmony with the Dao.

Zhuangzi here illustrates the state of those who have attained the Dao through two parables. In the first story, Bohun Wuren (a fictional Daoist sage created by Zhuangzi) asks an expert archer to demonstrate his skills while standing at the edge of a cliff. The archer stands on a precarious rock beside a thousand-foot abyss, his heels hanging over empty space, until fear drenches him in sweat. Bohun Wuren observes that a true "perfect person" (the highest level of practitioner) can gaze up to the azure heavens above and plunge into the yellow springs below, with their spirit (Shen) reaching all directions while remaining utterly composed. When the mind is gripped by fear, even one's most mastered skill like archery falters.

The second story recounts how Sunshu Ao (a famous minister of Chu during the Spring and Autumn period) neither took pride in being appointed chancellor (the highest office in Chu) three times, nor grieved when dismissed three times. He explains that he understood official positions come and go beyond personal will, thus transcending gain and loss. Through Confucius's voice, Zhuangzi comments: the ancient "authentic persons" (those who attained the Dao) couldn't be swayed by eloquent arguments, seduced by beauty, or intimidated by force—not even sage-kings like Fuxi and the Yellow Emperor could claim their friendship.

Both parables demonstrate how Daoist adepts achieve the state of "forgetting both self and external things," where the mind remains unshaken by circumstances, whether facing danger or worldly gains and losses. As Sunshu Ao declares, "I don't know whether the gain and loss belong to the office or to myself"—the truly liberated have dissolved the boundary between self and the external world.

This passage consists of two sections from different chapters of the Zhuangzi Commentary.

The first section discusses how neither life nor death can alter one's fundamental nature, let alone external matters like rank and salary. A person who has truly attained the Dao (the Way) can traverse mountains without obstruction, plunge into deep waters without getting wet, dwell in humble circumstances without feeling distressed—their Shen (spirit) permeates heaven and earth. The more they give to others, the more abundant they become. If one sacrifices personal benefit to govern the world, both sides suffer loss; whereas allowing each person to find their own joy means giving without depletion. When the King of Chu sat with the ruler of the small state of Fan, Chu's attendants repeatedly declared Fan would perish. The Lord of Fan responded: "Fan's destruction cannot truly make me lose anything." Conversely, Chu's existence couldn't truly preserve anything either. This reveals Fan might not truly perish, nor Chu truly exist—for existence and extinction depend on perspective, as the world fundamentally lacks absolute states of being or non-being.

The second section recounts the "Knowledge Wanders North" parable: A figure named "Zhi" (Knowledge) journeyed to the Dark River and climbed Hidden Bluff Mountain, where he encountered "Wuweiwei" (Non-Action Speaker). Zhi posed three questions: How should one reflect to understand the Dao? What must one practice to abide in the Dao? By what path can the Dao be attained? Yet Wuweiwei never replied—not out of refusal, but because he genuinely didn't know how to answer (implying the Dao transcends verbal explanation).

Note: "Wuweiwei" is Zhuangzi's fictional character meaning "one who speaks not of non-action"; "Dark River" and "Hidden Bluff Mountain" are allegorical locations. "Zhi" represents the seeker of knowledge—the name itself carries connotations of intellectual inquiry. This dialogue embodies Zhuangzi's teaching that the Dao cannot be conveyed through words but must be realized through inner contemplation.

This passage explores profound insights about the Dao (the Way). There was a seeker named Knowledge who traveled extensively inquiring about the true meaning of the Dao. He first encountered Kuangqu (a hermit), who was about to answer but suddenly forgot what to say. Later, Knowledge consulted the Yellow Emperor, who told him: the true Dao cannot be attained through thinking, speech, or deliberate action.

The Yellow Emperor explained: The one called Non-Action (referring to those who don't forcibly pursue the Dao) truly understands it. Kuangqu was close to this state, while both the Yellow Emperor and Knowledge remained far from it. Those who truly comprehend don't speak, and those who speak don't truly comprehend. Therefore, sages teach through "non-speaking" (Wuwei).

The Dao cannot be forcibly sought (as it exists naturally), nor can De (Virtue/Power) be attained through deliberate pursuit. Humaneness can be consciously practiced, righteousness will always have shortcomings, and ritual easily becomes superficial. Thus it is said: Only after losing the Dao does De appear; only after losing De does humaneness emerge; only after losing humaneness comes righteousness; and only after losing righteousness remains ritual. Ritual is actually the superficial form of the Dao, and may become the beginning of chaos.

The path of cultivating the Dao is a process of continuous reduction (removing artificiality), diminishing until reaching the state of "non-action" (Wuwei). Achieving Wuwei paradoxically enables one to accomplish all things without striving. Nowadays people are trapped by material desires, making it difficult to return to their original simplicity. Only genuine "Great Persons" (those who have attained the Dao) can do this effortlessly.

Life and death transform into each other—human life is the gathering of Qi (vital energy). When Qi gathers, there is life; when Qi disperses, there is death. Since life and death are fundamentally one, why worry about them? All things are essentially the same in their fundamental nature.

People regard what they like as miraculous and wonderful, while viewing what they dislike as rotten and foul. Yet the rotten can transform back into the miraculous, and the miraculous may decay into the rotten. Thus, all under heaven is but the same Qi (vital energy) in constant transformation (each person considers what they favor as divine and what they despise as decay).

In truth, what others find beautiful might be what I detest, and what I cherish could be what others reject. Therefore, the miraculous and the rotten are fundamentally interconnected—what difference is there between life and death, self and other? The Yellow Emperor once said: "I asked Wuwei (the one who embodies non-action), but Wuwei did not answer me—not because he refused, but because he truly had nothing to say. I asked Kuangqu (another enlightened being), who wanted to reply but found himself unable—not because he was unwilling, but because the words slipped away as he tried to speak. Now I ask you (the interlocutor), who clearly knows the answer—why do your words always fall just short?" The Yellow Emperor concluded: "Wuwei is a true master of the Dao, for he dwells in the realm of unknowing. Kuangqu is close to the Dao, for he has reached the state of forgetting words. But you and I remain one step behind—because we cling too tightly to 'knowing.'"

Heaven and Earth contain the highest beauty yet never speak of it; the four seasons follow clear patterns yet never discuss them; the ten thousand things grow according to their own principles yet never explain them (this is why Confucius said, "I wish to speak no more"). The sage emulates the virtue of Heaven and Earth, comprehending the natural order of all things. Thus, the perfected person (the highest practitioner of the Dao) does not act deliberately (letting all things unfold naturally), and the great sage does not interfere arbitrarily (only following the laws of nature). This is the lesson learned from observing Heaven and Earth.

The most subtle divine transformations and the countless forms of existence (all things change on their own, with no interference from the divine)—whether things live or die, whether they are square or round—no one knows their root cause (death occurs naturally, life continues naturally, circles are inherently round, squares are inherently square—there is no hidden hand controlling them). Yet all things have existed since ancient times (do they need human intervention to exist?). Though the cosmos is vast and boundless...

Zhuangzi here reveals the essence of the Dao (the Way) and the essentials of spiritual cultivation through several allegorical stories. He first points out that although the myriad phenomena of the universe appear chaotic, they all follow natural patterns. Just as the finest autumn hair (an extremely tiny thing), though minute, still manifests the Dao; the movements of yin-yang and the four seasons may seem disordered yet possess their own inherent order. The true Great Dao is formless, yet governs the fundamental nature of all things.

The story of Nie Que (an ancient hermit) seeking instruction from Bei Yi (an enlightened master) illustrates the key to cultivation: aligning one's physical form, focusing one's gaze, and gathering one's mental faculties. When a person becomes as guileless and desireless as a newborn calf, they naturally harmonize with the Heavenly Dao. Bei Yi rejoices upon seeing Nie Que asleep in a state where "his body resembled dead wood and his mind like cold ashes," singing as he departs—for this state of relinquishing preconceptions and complete self-forgetfulness precisely embodies union with the Dao.

The dialogue between Emperor Shun (an ancient sage-king) and his minister Cheng delves deeper: neither one's physical body, life, nor innate nature truly belongs to the individual—they are but temporary forms bestowed by Heaven and Earth. Since even our bodies are not truly ours, how could we possibly "possess" the Dao? This reminds practitioners to dissolve ego-attachment and accord with natural spontaneity.

These parables all emphasize the same truth: genuine cultivation does not involve outward striving but rather releasing attachments to return to one's original, authentic state. When one ceases forcing outcomes and relinquishes possessiveness, they paradoxically become attuned to the Great Dao of Heaven and Earth.

Now you possess life because Qi has gathered, yet this Qi is not something you can control; when Qi disperses and brings death, you cannot prevent it either. This is like water naturally pooling into a pond—not by your deliberate effort, but as a manifestation of Heaven and Earth's natural operation. Your life is like the empty shell shed by a cicada, a temporary form entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth.

Thus, when walking, one need not consciously think of a destination; when dwelling, one need not cling to a fixed abode; when eating, one need not overly pursue flavors (for these all occur naturally). The eternal Yang Qi (the universe’s primordial energy) circulating between Heaven and Earth—how could it ever be possessed by humans?

Confucius once asked Laozi (Lao Dan) about the highest truth. Laozi replied: "First, you must purify your heart through fasting (a practice of cleansing body and mind), eliminate distracting thoughts, and break through the confines of fixed understanding. The Dao is profound and difficult to articulate—I can only give you a general idea: light is born from darkness, form arises from formlessness, and spirit originates from the Dao (showing that all things emerge independently without reliance on external conditions). The physical body is rooted in Jing and Qi (both gradually condensing from the subtle to the coarse), and all things reproduce through form. Thus, creatures with nine orifices are born from wombs, while those with eight orifices hatch from eggs (demonstrating that though all things propagate through form, it is a natural process—each method of birth follows its inherent principle, proving the unfathomable workings of Qi cannot be altered by human will).

The Dao comes and goes without trace, has no fixed gate, yet penetrates all directions (it wanders the pathless path in accordance with its nature, releasing form into the expanse of Heaven and Earth and entrusting the spirit beyond the eight wildernesses). Those who align with this state will have robust limbs, unhindered thinking, keen senses, a mind engaged yet unburdened, and respond to all things without rigidity (for those who follow the Dao, their innate nature is preserved, and their spirit remains serene). Heaven is naturally high, Earth naturally vast, the sun and moon move of their own accord, and all things flourish naturally—these are all manifestations of the Dao (showing they are inevitable spontaneity, not the Dao’s deliberate acts).

As for broad knowledge—it does not equate to true wisdom, nor does eloquence signify insight (implying real wisdom transcends words and cognition). The sage discards such superficialities."

This passage elucidates the wisdom of sages (those who have attained the Dao) in navigating worldly existence. True sages relinquish artificial cleverness, completely aligning themselves with natural laws. Like the vast ocean that neither appears fuller when water is added nor diminished when water is withdrawn, the sage maintains this state (preserving the original nature of things without deliberate action).

The sage’s realm is as deep and boundless as the sea (embracing infinity) and as lofty as the mountains (merging with the cyclical transformations of nature, endlessly revolving). They utilize all things yet never exhaust them (skillfully employing creation without becoming enslaved by external objects)—this is the way of the noble person. Though all things draw from them, they never face depletion, for this is the true Dao (inexhaustible because it follows nature).

In the heart of the Central Plains, there exists a kind of person who belongs neither to Yin nor Yang (transcending dualities). Dwelling between heaven and earth, they merely adopt human form temporarily (detached and at ease, adapting effortlessly). Such individuals ultimately return to the source. At its root, life is but an aggregation of Qi (like a coalescing breath of energy). Though lifespans may differ in length, what significance does this hold before eternity? Even the distinctions between the virtuous rulers Yao and Shun and the tyrants Jie and Zhou are not worth disputing.

Fruits and melons follow their natural growth patterns (all things abide by inherent principles—one need only comply). Human relationships may be intricate, yet harmony arises naturally (human wisdom spontaneously generates order). The sage neither resists circumstances (yielding to what comes) nor clings to experiences (letting go when they pass). Harmonious response is De (Virtue); fluid adaptation is the Dao. Thus did the ancient sage-kings rise to prominence.

Human life between heaven and earth is as fleeting as sunlight glimpsed through a door crack. This speaks to life’s brevity, urging us to see beyond worldly judgments of right and wrong, gain and loss, and instead align with the natural Dao.

This passage expounds the Daoist perspective on the omnipresence of Dao (the Way) and the perpetual transformation of all things. It begins by observing that all phenomena are in constant flux, where life and death represent merely different phases of transformation. Living beings grieve for the dead, yet the departed feel no sorrow—this reflects the natural order. Like unwrapping a bow case (tao) or shedding an arrow quiver (zhi), life disperses and returns to nature.

Zhuangzi employs the phrase "formless taking form, formed returning to formlessness" to illustrate this principle: the shapeless assumes shape, while the shaped ultimately dissolves. Though universally acknowledged, people stubbornly cling to forms, inviting repeated failures. Those truly awakened to Dao (the Way) never strive artificially, for forced efforts prove counterproductive. Ordinary folk delight in debating principles, yet genuine Dao practitioners abstain from discussion—just as eyes fail to see themselves, silence surpasses argument, since Dao transcends verbal description.

The subsequent dialogue between Zhuangzi and Dongguozi vividly demonstrates this: When Dongguozi demands to know Dao's location, Zhuangzi replies "omnipresent." Pressed for specifics, Zhuangzi cites ants, weeds, tiles, even excrement—using extreme examples to show Dao permeates the humblest things, much like market inspectors determining a pig's fatness by pressing its leaner parts (the origin of the idiom "mei xia yu kuang"—truth emerges through examining the lowliest). Zhuangzi reveals Dongguozi's error lies in fixating on concrete appearances, thereby missing Dao's essence.

This passage employs the metaphor of judging a pig's fatness at the marketplace to illustrate the omnipresent nature of the Dao. Just as an experienced butcher (market inspector) determines plumpness by pressing the least fleshy parts (like legs and feet), comprehending the true essence of the Dao requires observing it in the most humble, ordinary things.

The text points out that insisting the Dao must exist apart from concrete phenomena is itself an incomplete understanding. The true "Great Dao" resembles grand discourse—it never separates itself from tangible existence. The terms "universal" (zhou), "all-pervading" (bian), and "complete" (xian), though named differently, all refer to the Dao's omnipresent essence.

A series of images then depict the mental state of one who comprehends the Dao: wandering through palaces of emptiness, merging with all things without boundaries; maintaining a mind of serene detachment, clear and harmoniously balanced. When the inner self reaches this expansive emptiness (liao), actions flow without forced purpose, coming and going freely without fixation on destinations. This realm resembles the "great wisdom" that roams freely through infinite void (fenghong), adapting to all transformations without constraint.

The crux is revealed: the Dao that makes things what they are shares no boundaries (wuji) with concrete phenomena. Because the Dao isn't a specific object but the fundamental principle allowing all things to manifest their true nature, it achieves profound unity (ming).

This passage explores the relationship between "things" (物) and the Dao (道). It first points out that all things have boundaries (物际), yet the true Dao transcends these limits. The concepts of boundaries and boundlessness are ultimately relative. Phenomena like fullness and emptiness, flourishing and decline, roots and branches, gathering and dispersion—these transformations are not governed by the phenomena themselves, but by deeper underlying principles.

The text then illustrates this through the story of Lao Longji: Shennong (the Divine Farmer) and E Hegan studied under him. One day, E Hegan discovered Lao Longji had passed away. At first, Shennong leaned on his desk with his staff, then suddenly dropped it and laughed aloud. He realized death was nothing to fear, for though Lao Longji had died, he had attained the state of "embodying the Dao" (体道)—those who truly comprehend the great Dao become the guiding figures all noble-minded people follow (体道者，天下之君子所系焉).

Finally, the passage observes that the great Dao is formless and soundless. People describe it as "dark and obscure" (冥冥), yet even this description falls short. Just as Taiqing consulted Wujiong (the Boundless), this shows the true Dao cannot be fully expressed in words—it can only be realized through personal awakening (唯在乎自得耳). The text emphasizes the Dao's transcendence beyond form and name, its ineffable nature, and the vital importance of internal realization to truly embody it.

Someone asked Boundless (symbolizing infinite existence): "Do you understand the Dao?" Boundless replied: "I do not know." The questioner then asked Non-Action (Wuwei, symbolizing the state of natural spontaneity): "Do you understand the Dao?" Non-Action said: "I do." The questioner pressed further: "Can the Dao you understand be described in concrete terms?" Non-Action answered: "Yes. The Dao can manifest as noble or humble, as gathering or dispersing—these are the forms of the Dao as I know it."

Hearing this, Great Clarity (a seeker of the Dao) went to consult Beginningless (symbolizing the origin of all things): "If so, between Boundless’s ‘not knowing’ and Non-Action’s ‘knowing,’ who is right and who is wrong?" Beginningless replied: "The one who says ‘I do not know’ has actually grasped it more deeply, while the one who says ‘I know’ understands it only superficially. ‘Not knowing’ is an inner realization, whereas ‘knowing’ is merely external cognition." Great Clarity sighed in response: "So ‘not knowing’ is true knowledge, while ‘knowing’ is actually ignorance! Who can comprehend the true meaning of this ‘knowledge through not knowing’?"

Beginningless continued: "The Dao cannot be heard with the ears—what is heard is not the true Dao. The Dao cannot be seen with the eyes—what is seen is not the true Dao. The Dao cannot be spoken with words—what is spoken is not the true Dao. (True realization must be silently achieved in a realm beyond sound and form.) Understand that the source which gives form to all things itself has no form. The name ‘Dao’ cannot truly represent it. (For though the Dao has a name, it has no form—no name can accurately describe it.)"

Beginningless went on: "Those who answer when asked about the Dao do not truly understand it. Even those who ask about the Dao have never truly heard it. (In the true state of the Dao,) there is neither questioning nor answering. To insist on asking is futile; to force an answer is mere pretense. To respond with such pretense to empty questioning—such people cannot observe the truth of the cosmos outwardly nor realize the origin of all things inwardly. Thus, they will never reach the Kunlun paradise (symbolizing the highest realm) or wander in the realm of the Great Void. (Only by letting go of attachments and merging the spirit into the vast emptiness can one attain true unity.)"

Finally, Radiant Light (symbolizing illumination) asked Nonexistence (symbolizing emptiness): "Do you, sir, exist or not?" Receiving no answer, Radiant Light carefully observed the other’s appearance: profound and boundless, yet gazing all day without seeing anything. (This shows that the highest state transcends the duality of existence and nonexistence.)

This passage explores the profound realm of "nothingness" (Wu) in Daoist philosophy and the essentials of cultivation through several stories and dialogues.

First, there is the story of Guangyao, who laments: Who can reach the highest state? He understands the distinction between "being" (You) and "nothingness" (Wu), but cannot yet attain the state of "no-nothingness" (Wu Wu)—transcending the duality of existence and non-existence. He wonders how to achieve the state of "neither being nor nothingness" (Wu You). This illustrates that the key to Daoist cultivation lies in surpassing all conceptual knowledge—true wisdom comes not from deliberate study but from letting go.

Next, the story of an eighty-year-old blacksmith who worked under Grand Marshal Da Ma is told. The old man crafted hooks with flawless precision. When asked whether he relied on skill or method, the blacksmith replied: Since the age of twenty, his focus had been solely on hooks—nothing else existed in his vision. This demonstrates the power of single-minded concentration—through long-term, undistracted practice, one can attain a state of mastery. Just as skill is perfected by entering a state of "effortless mind" (Wuwei), how much more profound is the state of complete non-attachment? Do not all things rely on this natural principle?

The dialogue between Ran Qiu and Confucius (Zhongni) delves even deeper. Ran Qiu asks whether it is possible to know what existed before the formation of heaven and earth. Confucius replies, "The past and present are one." The next day, Ran Qiu confesses his confusion: he thought he understood yesterday but is lost today. Confucius explains: Yesterday, he grasped it intuitively through direct spiritual insight (Shen), but today he became confused because he tried to analyze it with thought. This reveals a crucial truth—time has no inherent division between past and present, beginning and end; all things eternally exist. Just as it is impossible to have descendants without first having ancestors, heaven and earth could not have emerged from absolute "nothingness."

These stories collectively convey that Daoist cultivation requires transcending dualistic distinctions to reach a state where self and object are forgotten. True wisdom is not attained through intellectual reasoning but through direct spiritual realization. Concepts like time, existence, and non-existence are artificial distinctions—the Dao itself is eternal and ever-present.

This passage explores the relationship between life and death, and between natural spontaneity and human artifice. Through a dialogue between Confucius and his disciples, Zhuangzi presents the Daoist perspective on the transformations of life and death.

Life and death do not causally determine each other. Living things do not die because they are alive, nor do dead things generate life because they are dead. Life and death exist independently as part of nature's spontaneous transformations. Just as there was no sovereign creator before heaven and earth came into being, all things emerge spontaneously. While Yin-Yang may appear as the source of all things, they themselves are natural existences. We speak of the Dao as fundamental, yet the Dao itself is "nothingness" (wu) — how could it require any earlier origin?

The sages' (those who have attained the Dao) benevolence endures eternally precisely because they accord with this natural principle. When Yan Hui asked Confucius about the state of "neither welcoming nor sending off," Confucius explained: The ancient adepts outwardly followed transformations while maintaining inner constancy (external transformation with internal non-transformation), whereas modern people experience inner fluctuations while remaining outwardly rigid (internal transformation with external non-transformation). Those who truly unite with all things maintain unwavering constancy within. To abide peacefully in both transformation and non-transformation, neither deliberately accommodating nor resisting — this was the attainment of ancient sage-kings like Xiwei, the Yellow Emperor, Yu Shun, and the founders of Shang and Zhou dynasties. In contrast, Confucian and Mohist scholars who rigidly adhere to doctrines deviate from this natural way.

The key lies in "no-mind" (wuxin) — non-deliberate action (wuwei) that allows all things to transform spontaneously. Like the parks and palaces of ancient sage-kings, they were not deliberately constructed but naturally formed dwellings. This thought embodies the core Daoist principle of "governing through non-action."

This passage expounds Zhuangzi's transcendent attitude toward worldly knowledge and emotions. The sage interacts with all things yet harms none (by complete conformity with nature), and thus nothing can harm him. Only one who remains unharmed can truly engage with others without entanglement (for an empty mind allows complete accommodation, and complete accommodation enables transcendence over human interactions).

Mountains and wilderness bring me joy (though these external things don't truly belong to me, such joy is causeless), yet before the joy subsides, sorrow follows (groundless joy inevitably begets groundless sorrow—proof that worldly pleasures and pains aren't worth clinging to). When sorrow or joy arrives, I cannot stop it; when it departs, I cannot retain it. Pitiable are those who, like transient guests dwelling among the myriad things (failing to attain the state of "sitting in oblivion" for true freedom), remain shackled by these emotions.

People only know what they've encountered, ignorant of what they haven't (their understanding confined to their limited sphere); they can do what's within their capacity, yet strain for the impossible (what cannot be done shouldn't be forced—proof that neither knowledge nor ability is truly self-determined). To lack certain knowledge and abilities is humanity's inescapable nature (each life has its inherent boundaries). Isn't it tragic to stubbornly resist these inevitable limitations? The highest speech transcends speech itself; the highest action transcends action (this is true freedom).

To forcibly standardize all knowledge (through acquired learning) would render one's understanding shallow (deliberately acquired knowledge remains superficial, mere surface appearance).